


Young Love

by SouthernBuck



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Break Up, Cute, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family Bonding, First Crush, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Found Family, Funny, Gen, Good Parent Hosea Matthews, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Susan Grimshaw is the ultimate badass mom, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Whump, kinda painful, kinda silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27969245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBuck/pseuds/SouthernBuck
Summary: Takes place 20 years before RDR2.Arthur at age 15 is the youngest member of the small but notorious Van Der Linde gang. After a successful robbery the three of them lay low in a little town to celebrate, and Arthur meets a girl.Despite some very conflicting advice from his two mentors, things don't quite go to plan.Or - The first but not the last time Arthur gets his poor heart broken.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Young Love

**Author's Note:**

> To those of you asking:  
> Yes, I have now finished the game.  
> No, I did not spoil it for myself, and thank you to all those who did not spoil it for me.  
> Yes, I am completely crushed, I did not expect that down spiral of pain. I was not ready. I cried. I ate a pint of ice cream.
> 
> Anyway, here's some young Van Der Linde Gang random fluff nonsense. It was supposed to be a drabble but here we are I guess. No beta or editing, we die like warriors. I don't have it in me right now, gotta go continue crying over the loss of my cowboy.

_“Oh Molly, oh Molly, it’s for your sake alone,_

_that I leave mah old parents, mah house and mah hoooome._

_My love for you has caused me to roam,_

_ahm a rabble rouser and Dixie’s my hoooome._

_Jack a diamonds, Jack a diamonds, I know you were bold,_

_You robbed my poor pockets of silver and goooold-“_

Arthur takes a long swig of his warm beer, fighting the smile biting at his lips over Dutch’s out of key singing. He’s never much enjoyed the taste of beer but whenever Hosea is around he refuses to let him drink anything stronger, insisting he’s too young for whisky or gin. Going drinking with his two mentors always resulted in him being restricted to a few weak beers while they drunk the better stuff, despite his protests that he can handle his liquor at fifteen better than some grown men.

Still, despite feeling patronized by their rules, he has to admit that their care for his well being makes him feel valued deep down, not that he’d tell them that.

It’s a busy night at the saloon they’re drinking in, loud and bustling for such a small town. Both of the older men are tipsy, and Arthur is glad to see it. It’s rare for them to let loose at the same time. Usually if one of them was to drink heavily, the other would keep it light, in case they spotted an easy target during the night. Tonight was different though, they’d been traveling all day after a successful robbery three towns over, his first bank hit. It was different to the kind of small stage robberies and cons they’d taken him on so far. It had gone well, and they’d made an easy few hundred dollars, plenty to keep them going for a while. Tonight was their night off.

“You want a top up, kid? You did real good out there today.” Dutch asks playfully as he cuts off singing, standing up with his empty glass to head back to the door.

“Depends. Can I have something stronger than this piss water?” he grunts back, swirling the half drunk bottle of beer in his hand.

“Be grateful we’re letting you drink beer. Whisky is a man’s drink and your voice ain’t even broke yet, kid,” Hosea mutters, “Couple more years.”

“I ain’t been a kid for a long time, old man,” he grumbles as he watches Dutch head for the bar, leaning his chin on his wrist.

“Don’t be in too much of a rush to grow up, all you gotta look forward to is aching bones. Besides, you’re a useful young scrapper, we’d have had a hell of a time getting into that bank unnoticed if you hadn’t been able to squeeze through the window,” the older man mutters, leading over to playfully pat his elbow across the wooden table, “Besides, Susan would have a fit if we brought you home drunk.”

“I wouldn’t get drunk,” he grunts, leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair and glancing around the bar. It’s become an ingrained habit to scout around for potential victims to rob even when he has no intention on following through. They’d likely stay in this town for at least a few days before moving on, it would do no harm to get a feel for the locals.

Dutch puts two glasses down on the table for himself and Hosea with a clink, not sitting but instead leaning a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Poker game at the bar, fancy showing off your skills, you ol’ card shark?”

Arthur’s sure he see’s Hosea’s eyes glint mischievously as he takes hold of his glass and stands, brushing cracker crumbs from his lap.

“Can I play too?” he risks asking, not surprised when Dutch raises a brow at him but still scowling regardless.

“Couple more years, kid. Here-“ despite the look that Hosea gives him, Dutch slides his glass of whisky in front of the boy, “Just the one. You gonna be alright on your own for an hour while we play a few hands?”

Rolling his eyes he snatches up the glass and leans back grouchily, “God, you act like I weren’t takin’ care of myself for years before I joined you fellers, I ain’t no kid. Go do your thing or whatever, if you’re even sober enough to win at cards right now.”

Both the men start to laugh, Dutch patting Hosea’s shoulder heavily as the older man starts towards the crowd at the bar. “I wouldn’t worry ‘bout that. I saw that man win a game of old maid in a bar once then promptly pass out in his own vomit. He could be two sheets to the wind and still play any of these fools like a fiddle. Sit tight kid, we won’t be long.”

Arthur grunts, watching the two men wander off before downing the whisky, wincing a little at the burn, and pulling out the little leather book from his satchel. He plucks the carbon pencil from his pocket along with a cigarette, which he lights and sticks between his teeth before opening the little book on the table to a fresh page. Hosea had gifted it to him almost a year ago when he’d begun teaching him to read and write. He isn’t confident with his writing yet, but his reading’s getting better, and he’s taken up an enjoyment with sketching on the unused pages.

He blows out a breath of smoke as he starts scratching the carbon on the paper, eyes flicking to the bar to try to capture the movement of hands, the frowns of drunken men, the way the dim lights illuminate stripes on the worn wooden counter. There was something relaxing about the process; creating pictures on the pages, putting his thoughts down through scribbles, just documenting the world around him, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and there was a lot of the latter in this establishment.

Scribbled dark lines create the outline of an old man’s hand as he clutches his cards to his chest, and he pauses from the drawing to stub out the cigarette he’s burned through. He’s been so lost in his work he hadn’t even noticed the figure shuffle into the seat opposite from him where Hosea had previously been resting, and he jolts slightly when his eye catches hers.

A pale young woman sits before him, still young like himself but holding much more innocence in her soft blue eyes than his hardened ones do. She watches him curiously through thick lashes, her dark hair caressing her shoulders, shy hands playing with the hem of her gown.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, locking eyes with her challengingly, though his voice comes out weaker than he intends. He feels distracted, admiring the soft brown freckles that scatter her skin, the sweet rosy colour of her plump little lips, eyes even daring to take in the soft shape of her newly developed bosom for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t usually the first thing he’d take in about a person, eyes often scanning strangers to determine by their clothes and faces whether they had money, or were gullible, yet he found it hard to focus on anything beyond this girl’s face and it bewilders him.

“Oh, I’m awful sorry to intrude. I just saw you drawin’ and I was hoping to catch a glance. Don’t get many artists comin’ through a small place like this, and I draw a little myself,” the girl responds softly, eyes flicking to his open book before meeting his own again fondly. Her voice was smooth as butter, sweet and slow, it made him feel funny and suddenly he found himself tugging his hat down a little hoping to hide his eyes lest they betray the wave of shyness that suddenly comes over him.

“I uh. I ain’t no artist. Just draw a little,” he mutters softly, bewildered by his own emotions and hating the way his voice suddenly sounded foreign to his own mind.

“Could I see? I mean, if you don’t mind. It looks real pretty.” she asks, gesturing with a pale finger to the book.

He finds himself sliding it to her across the table, unsure why he’s doing so. He’s never liked to share his private thoughts and sketches, not even with Dutch and Hosea. Living in tents and on the road means there’s hardly any privacy in life, but that book gives him an outlet to be himself. It feels personal. Private. Yet here he is, handing it to a stranger he’s just met.

She takes it with gentle hands and starts looking through the pages, occasionally stopping to run a finger over a drawing in awe as if to check it wouldn’t leap right out of the page.

Watching her restlessly, he takes a sip of his beer, free hand fidgeting with the carbon pencil. Arthur Morgan was not a shy person, never had been as a kid and still wasn’t now. The world was cold and hard, and he met it back with a vicious confidence. Yet at this moment he feels like he wants the ground to swallow him.

“These are beautiful, you’re real talented,” she says after some time, still slowly turning the pages but pausing to glance up at him with adoring eyes, “I’m Annabelle by the way, Annabelle Larson. My pa owns the saloon.”

“Arthur” He grunts back shortly, peering at her from beneath the rim of his hat as she goes back to looking at the pictures.

It’s a while before she softly scoots the book back across the worn wood to him, smiling fondly. “I don’t suppose you’d try to draw me, would you? You’re ever so good.”

Arthur tugs the bandana from his neck, suddenly feeling quite warm from all the compliments, and clears his throat as he takes back the book. “I…I ain’t sure I….I’d probably mess it up. Someone as pretty as you I’d probably…I mean I ain’t capable of doin’ it justice…” he mutters, suddenly finding himself stumbling over his words and wishing Dutch or Hosea would come back over and stop him from making any more of a fool of himself than he already has. All the same he slowly opens the book to a fresh page, rolling his pencil between his fingers for a moment before starting to sketch, eyes fixed on her.

She watches in silent curiosity as he outlines her soft features and delicately shades her dark curls, then starts to watch his face as he works instead. Her soft eyes following his. “You new to town? I reckon I never seen you before today.”

“Traveling west with a couple fellers. Got laid off in the factories, we’re just passin’ through. Headin’ down to Armadillo in a few days I reckon,” he mutters, lies memorised flawlessly. “How ‘bout yourself, miss? You lived here long?”

“My whole life. Me and daddy live upstairs, we done never even left this town. I dream of getting’ to travel some day,” she says slowly, her delicate hand moving next to his free one, their little fingers brushing against each other’s. “You think you’ll visit again before you leave? I’m here pretty much every day.”

Just the feeling of her warm, soft skin against his makes his stomach do summersaults and he nearly stops drawing for a moment. “I don’t know, it uh, it depends,” he rambles, “I…maybe. Sure. I mean.”

She giggles, the sound reminding him of soft windchimes on the porch of a warm farmhouse in winter. He wonders for a moment if this is what love feels like, or if that’s even something he’s capable of.

“Well maybe if you do, we can have a drink together. Maybe I can show you a few of my own drawings,” she suggests sweetly, giggling when he nods back eagerly, heart in his throat.

He’s suddenly interrupted when a heavy land leans on his shoulder, nearly jolting from his seat for the second time of the night. He glances up to glare daggers at Dutch.

“Makin’ friends I see? We’re thinking of heading back. Hosea won a few hands but the pickings ain’t really worth it, and Susan will bite our ears off if we come back past midnight again,” the man explains, glancing briefly at the girl before back at Arthur with a look that’s far too smug for the younger man’s liking.

Arthur closes his journal and tucks it back into his satchel, tying his bandana back around his neck before standing. He meets eyes with Annabelle once again, realizing he’s nervously fiddling with the hem of his scruffy coat and making a conscious effort to stop. “Was uh, real nice to meet you, miss. Maybe we’ll meet again”. He nods softly at her and she gives him a shy smile.

Beyond grateful when Dutch makes no further comment on the exchange he follows the man outside to their horses where Hosea is already mounted and ready to go.

\--

It only takes half an hour to ride back to their small camp on the outskirts, and he’s glad for the short journey. It’s been a long day traveling and his lower back aches from the hours of riding, plus not that he’d admit it, but the whisky’s left him a little lightheaded.

“Evenin’ Ms Grimshaw,” he greets softly as he finishes brushing down Boadicea and joins them by the fire. Their gang is small, but it’s started to feel more and more like family in the time he’s been a part of it.

The older woman nods at him softly, pouring out some coffee into a tin mug and handing it over the fire to him. “Did you have a nice time out with those two goons?” she asks fondly, glancing obviously at Dutch, who only laughs in response.

“Oh, I think the boy had a real nice time. A real nice time indeed,” Dutch cuts in before he can answer, that smugness once again in his tone.

Arthur grunts, cupping the warm mug in his hands and glaring into the flickering flames as he waits for it to cool. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. Was a night like any other, they still ain’t lettin’ me drink proper or join in with the poker.”

“Mr Morgan, you’re barely fifteen. You shouldn’t be drinking at all, let alone gambling, besides, you have reading lessons at nine sharp tomorrow morning, you’re best not being hungover for that,” she chides, though her tone is fond as she stands, touching his head in a way that almost feels motherly, then heads to her tent, “There’s food in the pot, boys. Douse that fire when you head to bed.”

“Yes, _mother_ ,” he calls back sarcastically, rolling his eyes as dramatically as possible which makes the two men chuckle.

Hosea moves first to the metal pot over the fire, scooping a hearty portion of stew into a bowl and handing it to Dutch first, before dishing one out for Arthur too.

He takes it gratefully with a nod, sitting comfortably on a log before tucking in quickly. Eating fast is a habit not easily broken, and one he’s not working particularly hard to amend.

“You know, Hosea, I think our boy here might have met himself a nice young lady tonight,” Dutch hums as he takes a spoonful of his own, shuffling over to let the older man sit beside him.

Arthur feels the heat rush back to his face at once, pulling the hat over his eyes once more as he keeps his head down to eat with a dismissive grunt “Weren’t nothin’. Her pa owns the saloon, she was just bored and wanted to see my drawin’ is all.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure,” the older man teases, holding his hands up in mock defense, “Say, is that an artistic technique, turning red as a berry and fidgeting like a dog in the hot sand?”

“Ah, leave him be, Dutch,” Hosea chuckles, slapping the man’s arm as he watches Arthur duck his head even further with a glare that could burn through wood. “Kid’s embarrassed, it’s his business who he talks to.”

Shoveling another mouthful of stew into his mouth he lets his free hand drift to the satchel hanging by his hip, fingers running across it as if he could feel the book inside. His mind drifts to the sketch of her face.

“I remember the first time I was sweet on a gal. All of thirteen I was, met her while I was stealing chickens from a farmhouse. Was immediately convinced I’d met an angel” Dutch says dramatically, waving a hand in the air for emphasis, “Wrote to her every day for nearly a year, little romantic cherub I was.”

“I ain’t sweet on here or nothin’. I’m too busy for dumb stuff like that” he grunts back, nudging a chunk of potato around his bowl awkwardly, refusing to make eye contact with the men. “I mean she was pretty I guess, but it ain’t nothin’ more than that”.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, Arthur. You’re a growing young man, you were bound to get your first crush eventually. Even hardened criminals like us are subject to the nature of man, destined to crumble our walls over the gentle touch of a woman” Hosea mutters, chuckling at Arthur’s grimace as he tucks into his own dinner.

“I ain’t sweet on her and I ain’t havin’ this conversation with you!” he snaps edgily, shoveling another spoonful of food into his mouth with a frustrated grunt, “Lord, you two are somethin’ awful.”

It only makes the two of them start laughing again, and he tugs his hat down once again, tossing his empty bowl to one side and screwing up his nose in distaste for their attitudes.

“Ahh, calm down, we’re done teasin’,” Dutch chuckles, gesturing to him with his dirty spoon, “Anyway, we were thinkin’ ‘bout scouting out the town tomorrow while we figure out where to head next, it ain’t interestin’ stuff but Hosea was sayin’ maybe we could bring you along once you finish your morning lessons, give you an afternoon to explore by yourself a bit. I know we’ve all been stuck in close quarters these past few months, thought it might be healthy to give you a little space.”

They must notice his eyes light up because Dutch’s smile turns warm and Hosea chuckles harder, having to put down his bowl. “I can do whatever I want?”

“Within reason. So long as you stay in town and try not to get arrested.” Dutch waves to the air dismissively before continuing to eat, “We’ll let you know where to find us if you run into trouble. Go do some pick pocketin’ or draw something, or whatever the kids get up to these days. Or go visit your new friend again. Ain’t healthy to spend all your time chatting to a couple old farts like us, it’ll do you good to talk to someone your own age.”

“I…Thank you.” he mutters, trying to steal his excitement and mask it with anger, but doing a terrible job. Mind buzzing with opportunities he moves his bowl to one side.

“Get some rest, kid. S’been a long day. You outdid yourself at that bank, really, you did. I’m real proud,” Hosea chuckles, smile warm.

Nodding at the two men sharply and trying to hide the smile plastered on his lips, he heads to his tent to turn in for the night, tugging the drawstrings to close the flaps.

He lights a lantern, setting it down next to his bedroll to light up the space, and fishes his journal from his bag. Sitting cross legged on his bed he flicks it open to the page with his sketch of Annabelle, feeling a strange flutter in his chest as he sets eyes on her once more, beauty captured in graphite on the paper. She really was very pretty, even thinking about her he finds himself feeling a little smitten, rubbing his hand over his warm face as his eyes trace the soft curves of her features he’s done his best to capture. Perhaps it’s the alcohol putting silly feelings into his head, but god he has never had the desire to kiss a girl until this moment. He wonders what her soft velvet lips would feel like against his and it makes his stomach flip flop like a fish out of water.

It’s a longer time than he cares to admit before he closes the book, tucking it under his pillow. He leaves the lantern illuminating the small space, preferring to sleep in places well lit in case of an attack, then curls himself up small in his meager blankets, squirming at the strange feeling of butterflies in his stomach. Before he sleeps, he reaches over to grab the wooden picture frame by his bed, pressing a soft kiss to the glass and whispering a soft “night, mama” as he does every night before gently placing it back.

He lays down and dreams beautiful dreams.

\--

“Speak up, Mr Morgan” Susan sighs in frustration, clipping him around the ear for the third time when he starts mumbling the broken words of the dry book he’s supposed to be reading aloud to Hosea, who’s polishing his gun with little interest.

“Sorry, sorry,” he grunts, rolling his eyes as she turns away to continue scrubbing down the dinner table.

Hosea doesn’t look up from cleaning his rifle, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile. “She’s right, if you just mumble when you don’t know a word, you’ll never learn it. There’s no need to be embarrassed about not knowing something. Just say if you’re stuck and we can sound it out together.”

Arthur groans quietly, frowning at the yellowing pages of the dull book. “Ain’t even sure why you’re so intent on teaching me this shit. Not like I’ll ever need to know to read, bein’ a petty thief. It ain’t gaining you nothin’, you’re just wasting your time on me old man.”

“The ability to read is what separates the men from the beasts. You’re a bright feller, despite the block head act you pull. Don’t you ever dream of bein’ more than just a thief and a criminal? Don’t you want that option if it comes to it?” Hosea asks fondly, glancing up with raised brows and frowning when Arthur does little more than continue to frown at the pages.

“Once an outlaw, always an outlaw. Ain’t no escapin’ this life. ‘Sides, I ain’t smart like you’re givin’ me credit for. All I know is surviving, and I reckon’ it’s all I need to know,” he grunts in return, brows furrowed in frustration.

“Arthur,” Hosea mutters warningly, using that no-nonsense tone he’s taken to pulling out every time he so much as tries to berate himself. A habit he hadn’t even previously noticed himself having.

“It’s this word, …oorth…orfen….tit…kity…The state-ment brings with it an air of orf-fin-tit-kitty,” he murmurs sheepishly, glancing up from the book to glare a little.

“Authenticity. Don’t beat yourself up, that’s a hard one. It means something’s true. Remember, C can make the sound ‘see’ as well as ‘cuh’, if a word ends with c i t y, it’s probably pronounced like city, not like kitty,” the older man corrects fondly as he resumes his repetitive task.

“I don’t even understand half of what this book’s sayin’. Not even sure it has a story,” he huffs petulantly as he rubs his thumb over the corner of the page, “Can’t I go back to readin’ them books about the knights and dragons, at least they was kinda interestin’.”

“Those were children’s books, and your reading is getting pretty good. You’re ready to move onto adult books, you’ll get used to the shift eventually. Miller isn’t a fiction writer, it’s kind of like a self-improvement book. Dutch is fond of this one, it teaches some good lessons once you wrap your head around it,” Hosea explains gently, finally putting down the gun and stretching his arms above his head with an audible click. “I think that’s enough for today though, go get some breakfast and get ready. I’ve gotta take care of a few things then we can head out and meet Dutch in town.”

He sighs gratefully in liberation as he tosses the book in the grass and stands up, stretching is stiff limbs too before jogging over to the campfire lest the man change his mind and insist on another chapter. Susan has porridge cooking on the pot and the scent of sweet oats and honey makes his stomach growl as he ladles some into a bowl, taking it over to sit outside his tent and tuck in.

His mind whirs at the prospects of the day ahead, and at the thought of seeing Annabelle again. He’s sure he dreamed of her last night with her sweet as sugar voice and ebony locks, though he can seldom remember the content. He’d woken sweaty and in an awkwardly sticky situation he’d only arisen to a few times over the past few months, mind still fuzzy with the image of touching lips with the beautiful young woman, and was grateful when Susan hadn’t commented on him putting his sheets in her laundry pile before anyone else had risen. Growing into a man certainly was a process he hadn’t been adequately prepared for, he’s rarely sure if the strange things his body is doing are normal, but regardless he’s glad that neither Dutch or Hosea seemed to have any inclination so far to try to discus the changes with him, outside of the occasional teasing comment about his voice cracking or his, frankly phenomenal, growth spurts in the last year.

“Your food’s gonna go cold if you spend any longer daydreamin’ over there” Susan mutters, wandering past to place a pile of clean laundry next to him, neatly folded as always. She’s scolding him but her voice is sweet, she’s always had a soft spot for him.

He scoops a mouthful of the porridge into his mouth with a grunt, glancing over at Hosea to make sure the older man is out of hearing range before glancing at Susan a little sheepishly, clearing his throat. “Miss Grimshaw, can I ask you somethin’? It’s uh, it’s about girls,” he mutters quietly, hoping his face didn’t look as warm as it felt as he locks eyes with his bowl.

She raises her brows, a small smile on her lips as she rests her hands on her hips and watches him expectantly. “Depends on the question,” She answers shortly.

“Aughh. I dunno. It’s just. If a feller was…tryin’a impress a lady. How’d he go ‘bout doin’ something like that?” he asks quietly, scratching at the back of his neck in nervous habit. He catches a glimpse of her wry smile and ducks his head with a dismissive hum.

“Start by scrubbing that muck off your face and brushing that greasy mop you have the gall to call hair for a start. If you want to impress a girl, you have to at least look presentable,” she instructs, leaving no room for argument, “compliment her appearance, pick some flowers to bring her, a gift never goes amiss, and speak with confidence, don’t mumble. Stand up straight. Don’t even think about laying a finger on her person unless she consents to it.”

He nods as he shovels another spoonful of oats into his mouth, brow furrowing in concentration as he considers the advice. “What if she’s in danger and you gotta lay a hand on her, like if a speeding carriage is headin’ for her and you gotta pull her outta the way?”

The older woman’s eyes crease slightly as she smiles, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Just respect her and you’ll be just fine, Mr Morgan. The way to a ladies heart is through respect, courtesy, and politeness.”

“Yes m’am.” He nods at her in mock obedience, though can’t hide the teasing smile itching at his lips when she playfully ruffles his hair before moving back to her tasks.

\--

He’s grateful when Hosea doesn’t badger him to hurry up when he takes a little extra time to scrub his face and hands thoroughly, comb his hair in front of the dirty little hand mirror Dutch leaves by his tent, and pick some wild flowers from the edge of camp to discretely tuck into his satchel. He feels a little silly for doing it, but following Miss Grimshaw’s advice at least temporarily abates the growing anxiety in his stomach.

By the time he’s ready to go, the older man has tacked up both of their horses and is glancing over a map of the town. He folds it up when he see’s Arthur approach and hands it to him politely, “Dutch should be by the station, we’ll meet him there and decide on a time to regroup before we split up. You got everything you need?”

“Yessir,” he replies, clicking his tongue as he slides the map into his saddlebag.

They ride out together in silence, enjoying the pleasant wind cooling them from the mid-morning desert sun. It’s perhaps fifteen minutes into the ride before Hosea slows Silver Dollar down, waiting for Arthur to bring Boadicea to a trot besides him. “You’re awful quiet. Little nervous?”

“Nervous ‘bout what?” he rumbles quietly, fidgeting a little in his seat under the older man’s gaze and moving unconsciously to loosen his bandana around his neck.

“You ain’t fooling no-one, kid. You’re going to pay that girl a visit,” Hosea replies slowly, the smile on his lips fond and nostalgic rather than patronising, which puts Arthur a little more at ease. “You know it’s okay to be nervous before a date.”

“Ain’t a date, just gonna visit and maybe grab a drink together is all,” he argues sharply, glaring down at the filly’s soft mane as he grips her reins a little tighter. When Hosea doesn’t respond after several moments, Arthur shifts in the saddle with a defeated groan. “…What if she don’t like me so much in the daylight? She was real nice to me in that dingy saloon last night but…what if she see’s my ugly mug and runs for the hills? Or what if I say somethin’ dumb and she laughs at me?”

His words make the older man laugh fondly as he leans back on his own saddle, glancing at the sky for a moment before turning to watch the boy with an almost fatherly gaze. “You’re a fine looking young man, and wittier than you give yourself credit for. She’ll like you just fine, I’m sure. Just be yourself.”

Arthur’s eyes soften as he glances at Hosea , then returns his gaze sheepishly to his horse, despite it being nearly two years still not entirely sure how to handle being given gentle compliments and care. “I was real excited for today but the closer we get to town the more I feel like I’m gonna throw up any moment.”

“Women can do strange things to the mind. You’re not the first man to go through this and you won’t be the last. What you’re feeling is normal, but when you get there and start talking you’ll calm down and settle into things,” he assures, turning his gaze back to the rode as the town starts to come into view in the distance, a wry grin on his lips, “Feels like just yesterday you were a borderline feral little scrap of a delinquent tryin’ to pick pocket fellers way outta your league. Now look at you, all grown up and cleaned up, and paying your first call to a lady.”

“Hoseaaaaaa…” Arthur groans warningly, tilting his hat down in embarrassment as the other man laughs.

\--

Arthur isn’t sure exactly how long he’s been stood in front of the saloon playing with the rim of his hat he has held firmly to his chest. Certainly longer than feels normal, and a couple of older men entering and exiting have given him odd looks. It seems ridiculous to linger, he only has a day for this and time is ticking, yet his legs refuse to move.

“Now son, you ain’t gonna catch any woman’s eye by twiddling your thumbs in the midday sun.”

The voice comes suddenly enough that it makes him jump, and he turns around in an instant to throw his hat petulantly at Dutch as the man stops his horse behind him with a fond snicker. “You out here spyin’ on me now? I thought you said I could have some space,” he snaps, glaring at the older man who only laughs as he fumbles to pick up his hat.

“Relax, we’re heading over the other side of town in a minute, I’m just grabbing us some cigars from the general store over there and spotted you looking like you could use a little pep talk,” Dutch chuckles, scratching behind his horse’s ear. When the boy only scowls at him indignantly he holds his hands up in defence, grinning from ear to ear proudly, “Hey now, you’re the one stood out in the street like a lost dog.”

“How much did Hosea tell you?” he grunts at the older man, crossing his arms over his chest with a frustrated sigh.

“He hasn’t said a word but kid, listen, you’re talented at many things I’ll give you that, but acting ain’t one of them things,” Dutch remarks, raising a brow, “It’s written all over your face that you’re sweet on this girl somethin’ awful.”

He swallows thickly and snorts an annoyed breath through his nose before fixing his hat back in place on his head. Kicking at the dirt in irritation. “Guess I…I’m good with a gun and I can handle myself in a fight. Always known that sorta stuff, but I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout girls or love or any of that stuff. I don’t even know what tuh’ say to her.”

Dutch rummages in his saddle bag, never taking his eyes off the boy with a wry grin. He pulls out a silver coin and tosses it at him skillfully, which Arthur stumbles to catch, looking slightly bewildered. “March in there with your head high and buy her a drink. Only beer, mind you, you ain’t to get drunk, hear me?” he explains, leaving no room for the boy to argue, “Compliment her, tell her she’s beautiful, women love to hear that, and try to work into conversation somewhere that you can read, a well read man is a desired man. Take her on a stroll, offer her your jacket if she gets cold, and when the moment is right, kiss her.”

“But how do I know when the moment is….Miss Grimshaw said I shouldn’t even lay a hand on a girl let alone-let alone KISS her,” He fumbles out in moderate surprise, glancing around uncertainly in hopes there were no listeners to their conversation, which apparently Dutch finds hysterical because he’s leaning over on his horse once again in laughter.

“You want to kiss her, don’t you?”

He startles, feeling warm to the tips of his ears at the thought. Her pretty soft lips. He’s never kissed anyone before, aside from his mother perhaps eight or nine years ago. He’s never much had the desire to until now either, but thinking of her sweet freckled face and gentle voice like a chime makes his stomach flutter and his chest feel light, the thought of getting to kiss her, to share an intimate moment like that, to receive her affections, has him feeling light headed. “I….guess. She’s real pretty, Dutch.”

“Then kiss her. You’re a man, just pull her in close and then do it, plain and simple. You’ll know when the moment is right. Confidence is key, don’t go dithering about it, woman like a strong man who knows what he wants,” the older man declares firmly, nudging his horse into a trot and patting the boy’s head as he rides past. “Go get her, kid.”

Still reeling from the confusing string of jumbled advice, Arthur tucks the coin into his satchel and waits until Dutch is out of sight before taking a deep breath. He strides inside, head held high, hoping the dim light inside the saloon would be enough to mask the deepening redness of his cheeks.

\--

He wanders to the bar, eyes peeled for the young woman among the slew of older men lingering about. It’s far quieter than last night, only a few patrons sit around having hushed conversations amongst themselves. His heart begins to drop through his stomach when he finds the place devoid of any female bodies at all.

Shuffling to the bar he takes a seat, clearing his throat to attract the attention of the bar keep who glances at him with a raised brow before looking around as if to see if his parents were about. On any other day he’d have made a snide comment, or even a threat, but right now his mind is whirring. “Is Miss-uh….Miss Larson…around? I…she…” he stumbles clumsily, feeling like more and more the fool with every jumbled word that escapes his mouth. He takes a breath to calm himself, trying to think carefully over his words in case the barkeep was also her saloon owner father. “I’m an art collector from out of town and she wanted to show me some of her work. She uh….she said her father owned this place so she’s be around.”

Never pausing from polishing the glass in his hand, the older man furrows his brow with a disbelieving look. 

Arthur feels almost like he should turn around and leave, he’s never been fancy with words like Dutch or Hosea, and he knows for certain he’s need some damn fancy words to convince anyone that a scrawny fifteen year old was any sort of art collector.

“Arthur!”

Before the balding man behind the bar can say a word, the door behind the counter swings open and there she stands, if possible even more beautiful than he remembers. She’s smiling widely, clutching a soft leather book to her chest as she crosses the space between them. “I can’t believe you came back to see me. Look at you, all clean and groomed like a choir boy.”

He’s worried for a moment he’ll forget how to speak, his tongue feels thick and dry and his mind drifts airily to how lovely she looks in her dress, and how the soft lilac scent of her perfume makes him feel shy all over. Thankfully, words seem to come on autopilot.

“’Course I did, said I would didn’t I?” he hums, clearing his throat and taking his hat off politely to greet her properly, “I uh. Came to ask if I could buy you a drink?”

He slides the coin to the bar keep, who seems to discretely roll his eyes but regardless, takes it to put through the register. As if suddenly remembering, Arthur rummages in his bag, tugging out the small bundle of wildflowers, which are just a little battered from the trip. Holding it out to her awkwardly. “And uh, and to give you these. If you’d do me the honour of accepting them? I’m sorry it ain’t….it ain’t much but….”

He barely manages to finish taking before she takes the bouquet from his hand, leaning over without warning to press a sweet kiss to his cheek. It feels like the world tilts and this time he does forget how to speak, lifting a hand to touch the soft spot on his face where her gentle lips had graced him, heart pounding like he’s just been running from wolves.

She seems to notice his stunned silence because she lets out a soft tittering giggle and shuffles to take a seat beside him at the bar, “Well ain’t you a gentleman. I love them, and I’d be happy to let you buy me a drink,” she says gently, placing down her little book an gesturing to the bar keep, who places a bottle down for each of them.

\--

Once the initial awkwardness wears off, a few beers in, the meeting ends up being quite wonderful. She tells him about the town, how it was founded by gold minors in the 1840s but ended up being a crossing point between two cities for criminals to lay low. The passion in her voice makes him smile, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be around people his own age, young people with fresh interests and dreams and loves as they learn about the world like they’re opening a new book. She asks to see his journal again and comments fondly on the beauty of his linework and the softness of his shading, and asks him question after question on where the drawings were done, nodding eagerly in interest with every word he speaks. It makes him feel important, heard, he’d even go as far as to say it makes him feel proud. He feels so wanted in her presence, so valued that he never wants to leave her side.

“-That’s the bank up in Ridgewood. We was up there a few days back, just passing through,” he explains proudly, finishing his third bottle and watching fondly as she runs a finger over the worn page.

“It’s so detailed, you must’a sat for a long time” she mutters, softly closing the book and handing it back.

“A few hours, we was…waitin’ for something,” he mutters, tucking the book back into his bag, “you ain’t shown me any of yours yet,” He prods eagerly, eyes drifting to the little book in front of her, similar to his own but a little smaller with a black cover.

“Oh, these silly old things? I don’t have your kind of talent, I’d feel awful embarrassed showing you my chicken scratches,” she giggles sweetly, playing with the corner of the cover as she watches the worn wood of the old bar.

“Aww, I bet they’re real pretty,” he reassures, loosening his bandana a little as he watches her with soft eyes, a little flustered at her bashful modesty.

She giggles, pressing a soft hand over her eyes, a shy gesture, before sliding the little book over to him. “Alright but….but no laughin’.”

“Swear on my heart,” he assures her as he carefully takes the little book as if it’s a priceless piece of fine china and gently opens it to look through. His smile faulters slightly and his brow furrows as he turns page after page, taking in the soft pencil drawings.

“These are….all drawings of people’s mug shots?” he mutters, baffled as he glances up to meet her eye before turning his observation back to the paper.

“I don’t have much time to draw while I’m working here, and the regulars in the bar aren’t much fun to repeat. My uncle is the sheriff, I stay with him on weekends above the office and he lets me draw people that come through,” she explains, her soft southern voice lulling his concerns, “I find it mighty fascinating. Just between you and me… I rather fancy the bad boys,” she whispers, then breaking out into shy giggles. “The worse the crime, the cuter they are. Uncle would be terribly mad if he knew I was batting my lashes at the criminals, but oh, that just makes it extra fun. A little deviancy to spice up an awful dull life in an awful dull town.”

He keeps his head down as he listens to her secret, feeling the flush once again return to his cheeks, and focuses on flicking through the artwork, clearing his throat a little. “They’re very good, I knew you was doubting yourself, you’re way better than I am. These faces have so much detail well, I could just about recognize any one of them.”

“Well you are awful sweet,” she teases, bumping her shoulder against his fondly as her gaze drifts dreamily to look out of the window, “shame you’re a lawful, goody two shoes type feller, a sweet hearted criminal would be the man of my dreams.”

He isn’t sure whether it’s the overwhelming urge to impress her, or the indignancy of being called a goody two shoes, but before he realizes it he’s blurting out the truth. Leaning in close so only she can hear.

“Well, truth be told, I ain’t such a good feller. I’m actually kind of an outlaw, those fellers I was with last night are my gang, and that bank, I had the time to draw it ‘cuz we was scouting out the place to rob it.”

Her eyes widen as he speaks, a little hand cupping her mouth, but once he finishes she starts to giggle, kicking her feet in excitement and covering her eyes once again with those dainty hands. “Goodness, a real outlaw.”

“In the blood,” he huffs proudly, puffing out his chest slightly as he basks in her adoration.

“Since you’re such a bad boy…we should switch onto the stronger stuff. I bet you’re bored of this weak beer,” she whispers through giggles, tapping on the bar and politely ordering them a couple shots of whisky.

He faulters slightly as the glass is slid in front of him by the burly bar keep, “I don’t know if….Dutch and Hosea, my gang, they don’t like me drinkin’ too much, and it’s getting’ kinda dark, they want me to meet ‘em back at the station by sundown.”

Her smile drops quite suddenly and she hums in disappointment, turning away from him to down her own drink with a somber look, “Oh…sure. So I guess you go out and commit crimes all day without breaking a sweat, but you’re scared of one of them old fellers givin’ you a spankin’ for having a little fun out past your bed time.”

His stomach roils in embarrassment and he grabs the shot without a second thought and downs it, shooting the bar keep a sharp look to demand another. “Ain’t scared of nothin’. No one’s spankin’ me. Screw them. Keep ‘em coming.”

Her interest re-ignites in a second and she squeals in excitement as he takes the second shot handed to him and downs it, wincing at the bitter taste burning his throat. “I bet a toughened outlaw like you could down five shots and still shoot a gun straight, right?”

“I could do six and still shoot an apple off someone’s head” he brags, unsure why he’s suddenly compelled with the desperate need to keep her impressed. He’s had a sweet taste of her adoration and affection, and it was so easily whipped away, he couldn’t lose it again.

He downs a third, and a forth shot. A fifth. His head spins a little as the burning liquid sloshes in his empty stomach and he hopes he isn’t swaying in his chair as he demands a sixth glass. But Annabelle is smiling wide, hands clasped to her chest with a dreamy look as she watches him.

“You better not make yourself sick, mister outlaw, ‘cuz I was thinkin’ maybe we could…go some place quiet. A real bad feller like you oughta wanna whisk me away and kiss me somewhere private,” she teases, leaning over to play with a strand of his hair sweetly. “I know somewhere real private, follow me.”

She stands to lead and he hops off his stool to follow, not realizing just how much the world was tilting like a rocking boat until his boots hit the floor. He swallows thick and dry, too distracted by the thought of getting to kiss her, on the lips no less. There was a mischievous deviancy in her eyes that drove him wild. If she asked him to leap from a cliff with her at this moment he’s sure he might just do it without a second thought.

They giggle and tease as they stumble from the saloon into the dark street. The thought of Dutch and Hosea waiting for him at the station only briefly crosses his mind, quickly outshone by the beautiful woman tugging him along by his sleeve, her gorgeous dark locks illuminated by the soft moonlight and her sweet laughter tinkling like a bell in the silence of the night.

“Slow down, I think I’m a little drunk-“ he giggles, unable to stop himself breaking into fits of laughter every time she starts, the alcohol making him feel light and happy. He nearly trips on the sidewalk as she continues tugging him along, shushing him far too loudly as she unlocks a door in the dark and tugs him inside.

She grabs the lapel of his jacket and pulls him into a kiss before he has a chance to try and initiate it, and he’s momentarily stunned at the wave of bliss that washes over him. Her lips against his feel like electricity, tingling him to his very core, and his heart beats like a pounding drum as he eagerly grabs her waist to pull her closer.

It’s pitch dark. They giggle and stumble around, avoiding a table, bumping into a chair. She leads him around until his back is pressed to a wall and caresses the side of his face with her hand.

His heart flutters, he’s never felt to in love. So overwhelmed with the need for physical affection. So desperate to do anything and everything within his power to make her happy.

Then suddenly her hands are gone. There’s a loud clink of metal crashing against metal, followed by the Ka-chunk of a key turning in a lock.

He blinks in the darkness, bewildered and too hazy with drink to understand. He shuffles forward with open arms trying to find her, desperately seeking out her warmth and her sweet smell of lavender.

Instead he crashes into a row of cold, metal bars.

The strike of a match. A candle is lit. He see’s her once again, smiling at him with those beautiful doe eyes through the bars. His muddled brain whirs as he tries to figure out what’s happening, then another lantern is lit behind her, and their whereabouts becomes undeniably apparent.

He’s in a jail cell.

“Told you, Uncle, I told you didn’t I? The moment I laid eyes on this darlin' little rat in the saloon last night I knew he was trouble,” she says sweetly to the large figure behind her, who places his lantern down on the police desk and strolls over.

“You sure? Just looks like some regular little snot nosed kid to me?”

“Oh, I’m sure. He was an accomplice to the bank robbery in Ridgewood the other day. Two men and a boy, this is your boy right here. Admitted it to me himself, he even has a drawing from where he was scouting out the place.”

Arthur watches the two converse, mouth agape for a moment as he fully processes the situation. Suddenly feeling oddly cold and small in the absence of her arms. “Y-ou….set me up?”

She turns her attention away from the sheriff and gives him a soft look, like a pitying mother would offer to a hurt child. “Oh sweetheart, ain’t you just a doll. ‘Course I set you up, you think a scrawny little criminal no-body like you could win the heart of someone like me? Why, if I told you gullible was written on the ceiling I bet my cotton socks you’d look right up.”

“I’ll send for confirmation from the sheriff in Ridgewood tomorrow, if he confirms this is the lad, we’ll hang him tomorrow evening,” the sheriff mutters to his niece, ignoring Arthur completely, “and I SUPPOSE I’ll talk to your pa about letting you do some work here. You’ve certainly proved yourself.”

Standing dumbfoundedly in his cell, Arthur can’t bring himself to look away from her. She’s still smiling that same smile, as if nothing happened, as if this is all part of some game, as if his heart hasn’t just shattered like glass. He wants to swear at her, to curse her to hell and back, to shoot her and her damn uncle. He wants to kick up a fuss, to break something, to take her precious little drawing book and burn it to embers.

But he does nothing but stand and watch, head still spinning from the alcohol, chest tight and cold like he’s just been punched. He never knew feelings could cause such physical pain but he wants to curl up on the ground with the ache.

The last shred of hope in his heart dies as she plucks a wilted flower from the bunch he had given her and threads it behind her ear, giggling sweetly as she flashes him one last grin, blows him a mocking kiss, and leaves without so much as a goodbye.

\--

Sitting on the uncomfortable little bunk in the dim cell, Arthur glares at the thick bars trapping him in, refusing to acknowledge how blurry they look through the unshed tears in his eyes he refuses to let fall. All these years, all these years he’s managed to avoid jail, and now he willingly walked into a cell on his own accord just because a pretty girl batted her lashes at him. Lord does he feel like a fool.

Dutch and Hosea were going to be furious. That is, if they even bothered coming for him. They gave him clear instructions to not get drunk and to stay outta trouble and he disobeyed them, they told him to meet them at a certain time and he didn’t, too caught up in impressing some stupid girl. He wouldn’t blame them if the moment they heard he’d been jailed they simply left town. There was no real reason to bring him along anyway besides pity perhaps, much as they liked to tell him ‘till the cows come home that he’s useful, he knows he’s just a kid. A dumb, pathetic kid. Part of him hopes they won’t come, they’d probably only get themselves into trouble and probably a shootout, over someone who isn’t worth the fight.

Annabelle was right. He was a scrawny, criminal no-body. He’d be hanged tomorrow and no one would cry. No one would mourn him. The world would be better off with one less outlaw.

“I ain’t feelin’ good. Think I’m gonna be sick,” he mutters pathetically to the sheriff he can see faintly outlined in the dim candle light at his desk, scratching away at some paperwork.

The man doesn’t bother looking up, no sympathy or care in his body language or tone as he moves a piece of paper and grabs a new one to scrawl on. “What you want me to do ‘bout it?”

“C’n I at least have a bucket or somethin’?” he asks woozily, letting his head hang as it starts to feel heavy and thick like hot molasses was filling up behind his eyes.

“No, now keep it down,” the older man grunts out quietly, too distracted to care.

His head spins and his stomach churns, the world feeling unstable under his numb hands and feet. He hunches over to be sick at the side of the bed, too unsteady to try to move further away. Bringing up only alcohol and bile burns his already abused throat and a few tears manage to escape, rolling down his cheeks. He snuffles to himself quietly as he curls up on the cold bed, shivering from lack of a blanket and the awful taste in his mouth.

Closing his eyes, he tries to think of home, of his little tent with his precious pictures and his journal and his own bedroll. It wasn’t much but it was the first place in years he felt truly safe, one little corner of comfort in a cold and unforgiving world. He thinks of the smell of coffee boiling in the pot, always overcooked and bitter but still a welcome drink on a cold and sleepy morning. He thinks of Hosea’s patient smile as he listens to him read. He thinks about Susan being angry with him for coming home covered in dirt and her voice being betrayed with fond laughter as she forcefully scrubs his face despite his playful protests. He thinks of Dutch going on one of his lectures about America and what it means to be an American, the passion in his eyes as he speaks even if Arthur doesn’t understand everything he’s saying, and the proud pat on the shoulder he gives him afterwards with that look, that look of pride on his features.

He thinks of the picture of his mother by his bedside, her gentle eyes and soft smile. It’s been years but he can still remember the smell of her sweet flowery perfume, the soft fabric of her dress against his little hands. The way she’s look at him with such unconditional love, how he always felt protected in her arms, he had nothing to prove to her, she loved him simply because he existed and that was enough. She gave her life for him in the end, and he wonders if he will ever know love so strong he’d hand over his life in lieu of another.

He realizes he won’t, terrifying images of the noose troubling his mind.

Tears continue to escape and he hiccups and sniffs pathetically. He feels like a child again, he hasn’t cried in many many years, but here he is, cold, lonely, sick, full of alcohol, a failure doomed to death. It’s finally enough to break the walls he’s spent years building so high.

“I want my momma,” he chokes out pathetically, so quiet he doubts the man has even heard him until he replies.

“Well, she don’t want you.”

He weeps silently into his arm until the alcohol finally drags him into a fitful sleep.

\--

He awakes groggily to the clunk of a lock. Nausea crashes through him like a wave and his head pounds like he’s been clocked one by a gorilla.

It takes a second for his vision to readjust and his muddled mind to remember where he is. The cell door creaks open, a dark figure standing in the doorway approaching him.

Arthur bolts to his feet despite the pain, throwing himself against the corner of the room with his fists up to fight. “I ain’t did nothin’. You got the wrong feller! Get back ‘fore I kill you.”

The figure steps closer, familiar face being illuminated just enough by the faint moonlight shining through the barred window of the cell. Dutch holds one hand up defensively, the other pressing a finger to his mouth as he shushes him loudly. Once Arthur’s face twists into one of relieved recognition he gestures with one thumb to the sheriff, slumped over his desk with a bottle of rum in hand. “Laced it, he should be out cold for a couple hours but don’t want to take any chances, so keep it down,” He hisses quietly.

It still takes another moment for Arthur to fully comprehend the situation and determine it wasn’t a strange alcohol induced dream. He stumbles forward and throws his arms around the older man’s waist as if by instinct, so grateful to see a familiar face.

Dutch is visibly taken back by the gesture, jolting slightly and awkwardly patting the boy’s shoulder, un-used to such affectionate outbursts from the younger man. “There’ll be time for reunions later, kid, c’mon.”

Pulling away reluctantly he follows Dutch, creeping silently through the small building and out the front door, the cool night air bringing a shiver to his bones.

“You need to work on your bartering skills. ‘I did nothin, get back before I kill you?’ really ain’t doin’ you any favours, Arthur,” the older man huffs as they begin to move at a more casual pace, free from the hearing distance of the jail.

“You came back for me,” is all he can bring himself to reply, dazed and stumbling to keep up in the dark as his head spins and his feet struggle to find the curb.

“’Course we came back for you, doesn’t mean I’m not furious with you about this. We need to have a serious chat on the way home,” Dutch huffs, leading him around the corner where Hosea waits up upon his horse next to their own rides.

“Ah, good to see you again Arthur. Gave us quite a scare,” the older man greets, tone slightly fonder but still holding a certain sharpness to it. 

“M’sorry,” Arthur murmurs weakly, his throat sore and his tongue still feeling too thick and dry for his mouth. He moves to Bo, gently pressing his palm to her velvet nose.

“You want to enlighten us as to how you managed to get yourself arrested in the town we just got to? We only left you unattended for a few hours, clearly you can’t be trusted on your own again,” Dutch questions sharply as he climbs up on the Count, fishing a sugar cube from his pocket to feed him for waiting so quietly.

Bo licks his hand softly and he moves to try to pull himself into her saddle, struggling to put a foot into the stirrup to lift himself from the ground. He feels so heavy and numb, the ground still shifting uneasily beneath him. He stumbles back woozily, opening his mouth to try to snap a snarky response to the man but quickly feeling bile rise in his throat once more, just managing to step to the side before he heaves against the curb to avoid coating poor Bo’s feet.

“Oh great, he’s drunk. Jesus kid, I gave you three simple rules. Don’t get drunk, don’t get in trouble, don’t be late, and you went against all damn three. Christ we, we do damn everything we can to treat you right and raise you good and you constantly repay us by pulling this shit-“ Dutch growls, throwing his hands up in frustration as he chides the boy with his fury.

Hosea shifts on his horse. “Dutch-“

“Don’t try to defend him. He ain’t a little kid, Hosea, he knows right from wrong. He screwed up and he needs to know he screwed up. He can’t just keep going around causing trouble every time we take our eyes off him. Christ, sometimes I wonder if he ain’t more trouble than he’s worth, I-“

“Dutch-“

“You’re gonna be punished. Three weeks of cleaning up horse shit and helping Susan with the laundry, and no more cigarettes or drink, not ‘till I’m sure you can be trusted again. Now when we get back to camp we gotta pack up and get movin’, so you better sober up and sober up damn fast because you’ll be taking down those tents whether you’re sick or not. That feller will wake up at some point and send the law out lookin’ for you so we need the head start. You better think about what you damn well did and how your behaviour affects those around you-“

“Dutch!”

“Jesus, WHAT?” he snaps, glancing up from rummaging in his saddle bag for a lantern to lock irritated eyes with Hosea, who only exasperatedly gestures back at the teenager by his horse. The anger fades to something akin to guilt as his eyes settle on the boy who’s eyes are fixed on the ground, sniffling and hiccupping quietly as tears roll down his cheeks, hands clenched despairingly at the fabric of his shirt around his stomach. The very picture of misery.

Dutch is at a loss for words, for once, as he glances up and locks concerned eyes with Hosea. They’ve never really seen the boy cry before, not in the two years they’ve known him. Wild little delinquent he was, he had a steely coldness to him even at such a young age, that took them months to chip away at. It’s jarring to see him look so fragile, he looks younger than he is, and it’s a stark reminder that beyond the bravado and snark, he was still just a boy, really. Just a boy who’s gone through terrible things and has been forced to grow up too damn fast for his own good.

Dutch sighs quietly, climbing down from the Count once more and gently taking the boy’s shoulder, leading him to Silver Dollar. “Alright, alright. We can talk about it in the morning. Here, c’mon, you’re riding with Hosea, you’re too drunk to ride by yourself.”

It’s an attestment to how awful the boy must really feel because he makes no snide remark or sour protest as he’s helped into the saddle, instead just wrapping his arm loosely around the elder man’s waist to stay up straight and silently staring down in defeat as he rubs his dirty palm to his eyes to try to hide the tears he’s fighting to stop.

“Listen, Arthur. Dutch is angry, rightfully so, and I ain’t too pleased with your behaviour either, but you know we will always forgive ya. You could screw up a million times over and be the biggest ass we’ve ever had to deal with, but we’ll still come get you out of trouble whenever you need it. We’ve all screwed up, made mistakes, done stupid things. You turned fifteen a month ago, you’re hardly a grown man and we can’t expect you to act like one all the time. You’re going to be an idiot sometimes, hell I was twice the idiot you were when I was your age. But you’re one of us, we always have your back,” Hosea says softly as he nudges his horse into a slow trot, trying to keep the ride as smooth as possible for the boy’s unsettled stomach.

Dutch follows close behind, Boadicea in tow. He chuckles fondly, defeated exhaustion in his voice overtaking the anger as he shakes his head. “You’re one of the Van Der Linde gang, for better or worse. We leave no man behind, even if he’s a block headed, drunken moron”

\--

Arthur isn’t sure at what point he fell asleep against Hosea’s back on the trek back to camp, but he’s vaguely aware when he starts to come around that he must have been out for a while. He’s on his side now, head resting in someone’s lap inside of a wagon. Morning sunlight assaults his vision and sends daggers through his brain, he grunts as he buries his face in the fabric below him to hide from it.

“Ah, the delinquent awakens,” Miss Grimshaw mutters as she cards her fingers softly through his soft hair in her lap, her voice sharp and firm but betraying a concerned softness. “There’s a bucket next to us if you need it, Mr Morgan. Try to sit up, you need to drink some water.”

He groans again, making no attempt to move, “I fe’l like shit.”

“You look like shit too. This is why you’re not allowed to drink the strong stuff, you’re too young to handle it yet, I keep telling you. But do you ever listen to me? Nooo,” she huffs, gently but firmly pressing her hands underneath his shoulders to lift him into a sitting position, which pulls a louder whine from him.

Arthur leans back against the jittering side of the wagon, refusing to crack open his eyes even as the older woman forcefully presses a cantina of water into his hands and raises it to his mouth, only half the liquid making it past his dry lips as the wagon bounces down the dirt road, the rest ending up on his shirt leaving him feeling cold and groggy.

“Wh’re are we?” he slurs, becoming aware of how sore his throat feels on top of everything else. “I din’ help….p’k up thuh camp?”

“We sorted that last night while you took a rest, we’re heading north for a few days until things blow over, then we’ll travel through at night on route to Armadillo like we planned,” she explains exasperatedly.

He becomes acutely aware that it looks like she hasn’t slept much, and it leaves him both guilty and touched, “M’sorry I screwed up. Din’ mean tuh.”

“We all make mistakes, Mr Morgan. Besides, you’ll be helping me with the chores from now on to make up from it, as soon as you’re feeling better.”

“Ah, sleeping beauty is awake?” Hosea calls, pacing around the side of the wagon to hop in the back with them. “Make sure he eats somethin’, doubt he has much in his stomach to absorb the alcohol.”

Stomach churning at the thought of trying to keep down any food, Arthur grimaces and considers flopping back down into Miss Grimshaw’s lap, only stopping himself for knowing she’d likely drag him up by his ear this time if he tried.

“I take it the date didn’t go fantastically well then?”

Arthur glares bitterly at the canvas wall of the wagon, appreciating at the very least that his vision isn’t swaying anymore. “I was an idiot. Should’a known better. Made a complete fool of myself, wish I’d never gone in the first place.”

Hosea only chuckles softly, sitting next to Susan and resting his elbow on his crooked knee. “You ain’t the first feller to get too drunk on a date and embarrass himself and you won’t be the last, trust me. Why, back when ol’ Dutch and Susan were an item, he overdid it on the gin one night and tried to bring her a live turkey as a romantic gesture.”

It has the older couple laughing nostalgically between each other, but Arthur only screws his eyes shut miserably, trying to tone out the sound as he shakes his head. “Not like that. I jus…she made me feel so special. Then she just…she thought I was some…some soft feller an’…an’ I didn’t want to- I wanted her to like me so I tried to impress her by drinkin’. Turns out she wuh…she was playin’ me, Hosea. She was playing me like a fool. Just wanted to get me drunk so she could lure my idiot ass into jail, all so she could get some damn approval from her uncle,” he explains, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose to will away the agonizing ache in his skull, “I was a damn fool for believing’ any girl would like some… some god damn useless idiot like me. Maybe I am a soft feller. Christ, you should’a left me in jail to rot.”

They’re no longer laughing by the time he finishes speaking, the wagon silent other than the sound of the heavy wooden wheels turning beneath them. Hosea’s brows furrow and he moves his hand to gently pat the boy’s knee with a frown. “I’m sorry son, that’s…that’s real bad business. I didn’t realize you-“

“ **DUTCH** , TURN THIS DAMN WAGON AROUND. I GOT SOME CHOICE WORDS TO HAVE WITH A CERTAIN LITTLE BITCH BACK IN THAT HICK TOWN,” Susan suddenly interrupts, getting to her feet inside the small space and banging on the back of the driver’s seat furiously. All hints of gentleness gone from her voice and replaced with livid rage as she hops out of the back of the wagon and marches up to the front to join Dutch, seething under her breath. “What kind of DAMN skank plays with a boy’s emotions like that. Think’s she can bat her pretty, little harlot eyes and then make his feel like dirt after he tried so damn hard. Little trust stealing SLUT. I’ll give her something to damn well-“

Arthur meets bewildered eyes with Hosea who looks both amused and just as taken back as he feels. The faint sound of an argument happens up front and after a moment the carriage slows to a stop.

Dutch slowly steps around to the back of the wagon a few moments following, climbing in to greet them with a baffled nod. “We’re taking a little pit stop for ten minutes so Susan can take a walk to cool off. I’m concerned if I keep driving she’ll wrestle the reins from me and turn us 180. We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile right now and I’d rather she didn’t go and attack a child,” he explains, taking a seat where the woman had previously sat and rubbing a sore spot on is temples. “You wanna tell me what got her so worked up all of a sudden?”

Turning his gaze to the ground, Arthur just grunts in response, very much not having the desire to repeat the horrible experience again. Hosea seems to understand his silence and answers for him.

“That young lady our boy here was paying a visit to, turns out she was a bit of a character. Pulled a nasty con on him, that’s why he ended up in jail.”

Brows knitting into a concerned frown, Dutch sits back against the canvas wall thoughtfully, sighing through his nose and shaking his head. “Women, they really can be something, huh? The power they have over us men is dangerous. Makes us do stupid things. Takes an awful woman to use it to their advantage though,” he mutters slowly after a moment, “Ah, I’m sorry kid. I saw how infatuated you were and spurred you on without warning you to be careful. Some people out there are manipulative bastards and you’d never guess it by lookin’ at em.”

“It’s my fault, I’m a moron. Lord, I don’t know what you fellers see in me sometimes to bother keepin’ me around,” Arthur replies quietly, pulling a hand back through his sweaty hair, eyes still fixed on the ground until Hosea presses a bread roll into his hands. He grimaces up at the man but under the scrutinous gaze he takes a hesitant, small bite.

“Arthur, we joke about you being a moron but that’s all it is. You’re young, that’s all. You’re a damn talented kid and an important member of this gang, so stop wallowin’ in self-pity,” the older man chides, though his tone only holds kindness, “Don’t you take anything that young lady said to heart. You’ll find someone someday, someone good, like I found my Bessie.”

“As first experiences with romance go, I think you got the worst possible outcome,” Dutch adds, patting a hand against his shoulder firmly, “Heartbreak is somethin’ awful. You’re allowed to be upset, just don’t let it consume you.”

Grimacing again as he takes another small bite of the slightly stale bread roll, Arthur screws his eyes shut with a quiet groan, the mortifying memories of last night coming back, hazy as they might be. “Jesus, I bawled my eyes out ‘fronta you both, didn’t I? Maybe whisky ain’t such a good drink. I ain’t never cried like that since my momma died, that was a new low. I’m real sorry,” he whines quietly, moving a hand to shield the piercing sunlight from his eyes and wishing he was wearing his hat so he could hide his face a little better from the gaze of the two men. “I’ll work real hard at the chores, and I won’t drink again ‘till you say I can, I swear. Please never bring up last night again.”

The defeat in his voice must strike Hosea as funny because the older man starts chuckling, which earns him an elbow in the ribs from Dutch. “You know, it was real dark last night. I don’t think we even saw anything, did we, Dutch?”

“No sir. Don’t remember any cryin’? Didn’t see nothing in the dark of that ally.” Dutch confirms with a wry smile, holding back on a chuckle of his own. 

“You know, since we’re heading North, I was thinking of stopping in on Bessie for a few days at the ranch. Maybe the boy should join me, the old girl is always complaining that we could use an extra pair of hands. He could work off his chores up there, get his mind away from this whole business for a bit,” Hosea suggests thoughtfully, waving one hand in the air in a vague gesture, unable to hide his smile when Arthur’s eyes light up.

Dutch snorts softly, leaning back and stretching his legs as he grabs another bread roll from their supply bag and takes a bite. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Bit of manual labour is just what he needs to get his head on straight. I’m sure Bessie will be thrilled to see him again, it’s been a few months.”

“You’d really bring me with you? I don’t even know nothin’ ‘bout farm work,” Arthur questions suspiciously, though his tone betrays his eagerness. He’s met Bessie several times, usually when Hosea brings her to the camp for visits, and she’s always been nothing but sweet to him, sometimes even bringing him gifts like baked treats. She knitted his winter scarf, and something about the gesture makes it feel warmer than anything he’s ever owned.

“Good a time as any to learn. I’ll teach you to heard the sheep, it’ll be a good lesson in case we ever take on any hustlin’ jobs,” Hosea remarks enthusiastically, “an’ Bessie will appreciate your company. You’re the only person that compliments her apple pie. I love the woman, I really do, but lord if I wanted to have a heart attack I’d just eat sugar cubes and butter sticks straight.”

At that moment they’re interrupted as Susan climbs back into the back of the wagon, looking significantly calmer while still retaining that disgruntled frown of disapproval. “Started a fire and put on some coffee for you boys, figure we’re far enough away that we can warrant a proper breakfast break, and the boy could use something for his hangover. C’mon,” she instructs, leaving no room for argument as she hops back down and disappears from view, expecting them to follow.

Dutch stands first with a stretch and a chuckle, hopping down after her and holding out a hand to help Hosea down. “That, gentlemen, is the scariest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. But lord we wouldn’t survive without her.”

Rolling his eyes and biting back a grin, Hosea glances back at Arthur as his feet hit the ground. “You need a hand getting up?”

“Naw, head over I just need a second to get my head to stop spinnin’ and I’ll join you,” the boy grumbles, putting down his half eaten bread roll and stretching his arms back until his shoulders click.

They nod and move out of sight, and he shuffles to his knees with a sigh, reaching for his journal tucked away in the bag Miss Grimshaw had peeled from him in the night and put to one side. He flicks it open to the most recent page, the profile of the gorgeous girl with her soft eyes and freckled skin staring up at him almost mockingly. He debates tearing it out. Screwing it up, throwing it in the fire, tearing it to shreds or grinding it into a pile of horse shit with his heal.

But he doesn’t. In a strange way, the bitter anger he feels gazing on her face is a stark reminder of the fool he can be, and it feels important to keep it. Though he’s sure despite his efforts, somehow, he’ll make a fool of himself again someday.

He turns the page and moves on.


End file.
